


A Study in Johnlock

by Alleviate_Boredom



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Dating, Fluff, Geology, I'll update tags as they come, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Misunderstandings, National Portrait Gallery, Pictures, Scarves, Snow, This is basically a collection of short johnlock fics based on a one word prompt, collection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 12:56:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9441263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alleviate_Boredom/pseuds/Alleviate_Boredom
Summary: A collection of short johnlock fics based on one word prompts. Some are fluff, some are angst... each chapter is a new story serving as a writing warm up for me. Constructive criticism is more than welcome.





	1. Snow

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment if you can, I'm keen to improve my writing at it really helps if you leave a few pointers! Thank you and I hope you enjoy it. 
> 
> \- Alleviate_Boredom

“John…” despite Sherlock's complaints, John kept walking, shoving his hands in his pockets and holding his head high. “John!” Sherlock tried again, slightly louder than before. Behind him, a few policemen began chuckling quietly amongst themselves; John kept walking, ignoring Sherlock’s piteous cries. “John!”

“Oop, Sherlock’s about to throw a tantrum,” Donovan murmured to a coworker, eliciting a fit of giggles, but Sherlock wasn't listening. He remained standing a few feet away from the police tape, holding the scarf in his hands as he gazed at John’s slowly retreating back. 

The icy breeze whipped around him, bypassing the collar of his usually warm coat and wrapping itself around his neck like a silk noose; a shiver spilled down his back and he squeezed the scarf tightly, still staring at the spot John had been before he disappeared off down another street. 

Sherlock wanted to follow him, desperately. He wanted to run after him and apologise. He knew that John was very often a drama queen, but he also knew that this wasn't one of those occasions. Sherlock wanted to yell, but instead he tugged on the scarf in his hands. It was still warm in places. 

“I don't…” he began quietly, the cold hitting the back of his throat and causing him to stall. “What…” He swallowed, still fumbling around with the scarf. “What did I do wrong?” He managed nervously, the hurt in his voice becoming all too prominent. He wanted to be sick. The question, which was addressed to Lestrade, silenced the giggles in an instant and Donovan nudged her comrade harshly in the ribs. 

“Listen,” she urged, and the gang of policemen all shuffled forwards, listening intently. 

Around them, the yellow street lamps light caught on the thick clouds hanging above and created a soft orange glow across London. All around the city, the gritters were prowling the street like slugs, leaving their salty trail as the newly forming ice melted slowly under their tires. Sherlock sighed quietly, looking down at the scarf. 

“You didn't do anything, mate,” Lestrade mumbled, throwing a glare over his shoulder at Donovan’s crew, who each dispersed quickly and began gathering evidence from around the corpse. “It's just… John.” 

"John?" Sherlock frowned, turning to look at him. “What do you mean? John's… John. Rational, kind… I've done this. I know I have. I'm always the one at fault when it comes to him and I. What did I do, Greg? John's so wonderful and he tried to help and what did I do?”

“You babbled and blushed,” Lestrade replied innocently, smiling slightly. “It was quite cute, really. How to shut Sherlock Holmes up in two seconds…” he grinned and Sherlock glared at him.

“It's not funny!” He protested, growing increasingly more anxious, as thick white flakes began drifting down from the clouds, but Sherlock barely noticed them. He couldn't stand to have everyone laugh at him, especially with John hating him at the same time. He was just about to leave, when a new voice popped into action at his side.

“You know, when I gave you my scarf I expected you to put it on…” John mumbled, hands clasped behind his back. “Also, I, er, don't have enough cash on me to get a cab and I don't fancy walking back in the snow, so.” 

Sherlock closed his eyes, wrapping the scarf around his neck as Lestrade began laughing with the rest. John glanced up at Sherlock, who sighed quietly.

“You were embarrassed…” he mumbled, not opening his eyes. “I didn't do anything wrong.”

John frowned, a bit confused. “Urm, no? And, yes. I was. Still am, a bit. Can we go?”

“You leant me my scarf…” Sherlock continued, and John swallowed. 

“Yes.”

“Because I left mine at the flat.”

“… Yes, Sherlock. You don't need to recap.” 

"And then you kissed my cheek,” Sherlock finished, opening his eyes again and grinning at him. John's cheeks had gone crimson, although Sherlock suspected it wasn't from the cold. 

“Urm…” John considered it for a few moments, then nodded. “Yes, that sounds about right. Can we go now, please? I'm very cold and I think Donovan is laughing at me.” 

Sherlock chuckled. “At us,” he corrected, smiling at him. “Now, come on, before either of us do something we might regret.”

John rolled his eyes, smiling guiltily. “Sherlock… it was an accident. There's nothing… you know I'm not…”

“Not gay?” Sherlock finished. “Yes, I know. Yet, you kissed my cheek and then ran off in complete embarrassment, and going by the butterflies in my stomach I think it's more than nothing. Now come on.” He offered John his hand. “I'll order a pizza and we’ll talk about it over dinner.”


	2. Pictures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one involved a lot of strange Googling, but I've learned a fair amount of useless information from it so I don't really mind. The prompt was 'Picture'.
> 
> I'd also like to point out that I love the National Portrait Gallery, just in case this drabble implies that I don't. 
> 
> Please leave any comments! All are welcome. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> \- Alleviate_Boredom

The National Portrait Gallery sat overlooking Trafalgar Square like a monarch sitting on a throne. The domed roof likened it other famed London landmarks, such as St Paul’s Cathedral, which, incidentally, was comprised of “… the same Portland stone as the 1896 Shillitoe and Son’s National Portrait Gallery building”, Sherlock told John animatedly as they stopped in front of a new picture. “It’s a limestone, formed in the Jurassic period, but it’s such a regal rock. I mean, it was used to build the Palace of Westminster, the Tower of London, and the East-side of Buckingham Palace. I don’t know what the rest of Buckingham Palace is made out of, I’ll have to…”

John chuckled, kissing his cheek. “You’re supposed to be looking at the pictures, love,” he whispered fondly, squeezing his hand gently. “And as much as I love listening to you talk about rocks, it’s not what we’ve come here for.” Sherlock huffed in annoyance, deciding to watch the picture instead. John had taken to reading the small information plaque perched next to it; dazzling so brilliantly white that it forced the reader to remember that they were living in a modern world, and not 1803 when the original picture was allegedly painted. In Sherlock’s opinion, it was all rather pointless and a bit stupid. People circled the different rooms like vultures, pausing occasionally to appreciate the artwork they didn’t understand and wouldn’t remember, all in their sophisticated and unjust silence. The plaques separated the ages; they separated the artists and the pretend academics. Sherlock could spot them in an instant. 

There were some people who were genuinely interested, he granted. John seemed… Sherlock watched him closely, smiling slightly: John was watching everything with a bemused expression. He was studying everything he could but was making no effort to pretend he understood each picture to its full extent. Sherlock could tell by his face whether he liked a picture or not; if he liked it, he’d hum appreciatively and give a small nod. If he didn’t like it, he’d frown slightly and squint somewhat, studying it again in an attempt to like it. John’s opinions on a picture varied on how it made him feel.   
Sherlock sighed. Trust him to choose such a romantic sod for a boyfriend. 

However, while John was talking and Sherlock’s train of thought had drifted somewhat, a short woman with an upturned nose glared at the pair of them. John opted to pay her no mind, but Sherlock smiled at her, finding her apparent disgust much more interesting than an ink transfer of a painting. 

“Lovely, isn’t it?” He asked, not troubling to keep his voice down as he spoke to her. “Francesco Albani: Ecco Homo. No idea what it means,” he smiled innocently, and John rolled his eyes, not bothering to hide his smile.

“It says what it means on the plaque,” he mumbled, nodding towards it. The woman smiled slightly at John’s input and sniffed as she stalked away, thumbing through her guidebook. Sherlock sighed, looking down at his feet and shifting his weight between each foot. Many museums failed to follow Sherlock’s idea of what a museum should be. If he wanted to learn something, he’d go to the library, and by the library, he meant he’d open up his laptop and open Google. Museums were supposed to be interesting. They were supposed to hook people’s attention and make them want to learn. Instead, they were attracting snobs who were searching for their false sense of entitlement. Sherlock frowned, yearning for more people to be like John. 

“This is a bit boring really, isn’t it?” John asked quietly, looking up at him. “I mean, I liked seeing Van Gogh and some of that Pre-Ralph… Ralph…?”

“Pre-Raphaelite,” Sherlock supplied.

John nodded. “That. I don’t know; I know you’re not enjoying yourself, so… I have an idea,” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow up at him as John smiled and explained. “We find a nice restaurant,” he continued, smiling. “And you can carry on telling me all about that Portland stone. Jurassic, isn’t it? That’s Dorset area? Why did they choose to use that rock rather than London clay?” He asked, and Sherlock beamed.

“Well,” Sherlock began eagerly.


End file.
